Late at night is my favorite time to write. I love thinking of all the others up at the same time creatively thrashing through the night. I conjour up everything from thrashing through the rainforest to thrashing around a hotel bed. I can really let myself float away on those fantasies. Now that I am turning 80, I think of myself as liberated from life. Yes, the children and grandchildren are disappointed in me, but they give me hugs and send me off. They always knew I was never cut out for the mommy business.

I turn every minor interaction into a romance story now. The kids like all my escapades, like the time I was handed a hot cup of coffee at the donut shop and our hands touched. It felt, electric and I looked into the young man's eyes. I smiled, a sweet grandmotherly smile, but on the inside I was the missing musketeer. I jumped across the counter, swinging my legs as if across a Olympic parallel bars. I push him gently against the donut racks and kiss him on the lips. When I step back I wonder how he is going to explain the powdered sugar in his hair and down his back. I think it is true when they say still waters run deep. I was married, remember the story about kids and grandkids, but I never married for love. Now, I don't regret getting married, but this was the one and only guy to come along in 20 years so I snatched him up and went on my way.

But the attraction wasn't there and well, even though I was fooling myself as well as everyone else, with time, he found someone more suitable for him. I was left behind after all those nasty words and violence. Some how I made it out, some how, but I could never reconstruct it. I'm not sad or mad, I'm more curious if anything. Seeing that I didn't like my husband, makes me look at all those folks hand holding or stealing a kiss, or my favorite, the confidential wink. I notice all this more and more as I go out now. I wonder, am I too old for sex?

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